


The Beautiful Truth

by chthonianCrocuta (lovesthesoundof)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesthesoundof/pseuds/chthonianCrocuta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Do you have a minute to talk about the Crocker campaign?"</i>
</p><p>After a harrowing experience on the campaign trail, publicist Rose Lalonde thought she'd given up politics forever. She also thought she'd never meet Cousin Roxanne, the <i>enfant terrible</i> of her mother's cautionary tales. Within forty-eight hours of losing her job with a rock act, she's proven wrong. Twice.</p><p>Written for the HSWC 2013, Round One.  Archive warned to be safe: sexual abuse of minor(s) alluded to on one occasion, but not dealt with in any detail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beautiful Truth

It all begins on a Tuesday morning, and it begins with these words:

"Hi! Rose Lalonde, right?"

You are, in fact, Rose Lalonde, and you don't know why the blonde woman in a suit is standing on your front doorstep, but you have an armful of groceries and a trying morning behind you - the latter of which has much to do with being messily fired about twelve hours ago - and as a consequence you have little desire to exchange pleasantries with someone blocking your route indoors. "The same."

Your visitor is apparently oblivious to your brusque tone, but at least she steps out of your path. "Do you have a minute to talk about the Crocker campaign?"

Oh god, is it that time again? You hadn't realised. "I'm sorry," you say, feeling not very sorry at all as you move past her to unlock the door, "I'm not in the habit of discussing my vote."

She laughs gently. "A-haha. I'm not here for your vote, Ms. Lalonde." At last she seems to realise you're busy, and glances from you to your burden. "...Can I...carry something?"

You look her over. She's taller than you, leaner, prettier, wearing an easy smile; you're torn between bitter jealousy and a strange tug of familiarity. Well, if she's in no hurry to leave you be, she might at least make herself useful. "...The two blue bags, please."

"On it."

 

Though you can't quite believe you're doing it, you lead the perfect stranger into your kitchen and direct her to set the groceries on the counter. She looks at home here. She might be one of those people who looks at home everywhere. Surprisingly, she refuses both tea and coffee. "No, thanks, I...bad relationship with caffeine. Rebound, messy breakup, lawyers, settlement - "

From her haphazard gesturing you can tell she's on some kind of tangent, and your already well-worn patience demands you shake her loose. "You said you're not here for my vote."

"Why, would I get it? - Kidding." She holds her hands up in mock-defence and grins, and when she finally comes to the point that grin doesn't vanish. It just softens into a smile. "I'm here for you."

Oh. A headhunter. That explains everything - except, of course, why she looks so familiar. "Word travels swiftly," you remark, setting the kettle to boil.

"No kidding. Spider Eighty-Eight made a big mistake letting you go."

She's referring to the idiosyncratic rock act you've been working with for the past two years. Keeping their notorious lead singer in check is probably the cause of the few grey hairs you've found creeping in at your temples. "Spiderbait."

"You're shitting me. How the fuck does - " She shakes off her confusion. "...nevermind. We're looking for a publicist, and your name is - "

"Anathema."

She blinks, startled by your flat interruption. "...I...would not have gone that far."

But she knows why you said it, which is enough. "Nevertheless, there are several very good reasons I don't work for politicians any more, Miss..."

"Oh! Right - " Several minutes after the fact, she remembers to introduce herself. "Strider," she says, offering a slender hand that you clasp politely. "Roxy."

...Roxy Strider? Why does that ring bells? ...Wait a minute... "Is that as in Roxanne?"

"Ugh." The roll of her eyes tells you the answer before she gives it aloud. "Tragically, yes. If you start singing I swear to god - "

The rest of her idle threat blends together in a stream of sounds; you aren't concentrating, and have no intention of singing in any case. You've just realised two things: first, that you're still holding her hand, and second, that you know where you've seen her before. You excuse yourself with a distant "just a minute, please" and hurry into the living room, returning a few moments later with an aged photo album - and there she is, on the very first page. She's about twenty years younger, all dressed in pink and white with her arm around a blonde boy in shades, and she's raising a bottle to toast the photographer. Or the future.

The label above her head, written in your mother's flowing cursive, reads "Cousin Roxanne".

"Oh my god." Roxy is looking over your shoulder in response to your beckoning. "You gotta be shitting me."

Despite her pervasive bad language, you feel yourself smiling. "You're my...second cousin, I think? Possibly once or twice removed? This is your elder brother?"

She nods at the tap of your finger upon the boy's sunglasses; he's labelled "Cousin Dirk". Her grin is one of dazed excitement, like someone fresh from a spin on a rollercoaster. "Yeah! God damn. I mean, I knew there had to be some other branch of the family snaking off into upstate New York somewhere, but Dirk never named names." She takes a step back to look at you, carding her fingers through her hair (which somehow, curse her, falls right back into its style). "Jesus Christ. Hi!" The exclamation comes on a giddy laugh. You understand the feeling. "I mean - fuck me. Wow. I..." Her grin is fading into a regretful half-smile. "...wish I had time to swap stories with you, but I really am here for the candidate today and we're running on a tight-ass schedule. Seriously, its ass is so tight you could bounce a - " This time your raised eyebrow is enough to warn her off a ramble, and she jumps to another train of thought. "Why'd you get outta politics?"

You seldom talk about that. Something about Roxy, though - and perhaps the knowledge that she's actually _Cousin_ Roxy - persuades you to at least outline the situation. "If you know enough to have an opinion on the relative position of my name to anathema in the sphere, you know about the Scratch campaign."

She frowns a little. "Yeah, you blew him off mid-race and everybody said it cost him the election. So?"

"So, my dear distant relation," you continue, retrieving the makings of a cup of tea from various cupboards, "I have had a lifetime's worth of painting over the metaphorical bloodstains. I have a novel to finish and no more stomach for damage control or tactical backstabbing. Being recently free of the shackles of the latest cruel and capricious mistress, I am resolved that the only person for whom I will tell beautiful falsehoods this year is my publisher."

"How 'bout the beautiful truth?"

It's a quick comeback. You'd be impressed if you weren't convinced she's more than just a headhunter. "Truth is rare and relative in politics."

She offers you a winning smile. "Shouldn't that make you more interested when it actually shows up?"

"It makes me doubt its veracity." The kettle clicks off, steam rising from the spout. As you fill the teapot, you catch a flicker of hurt in Roxy's expression and feel compelled to soothe it. "Listen, I'm not saying you're wrong to believe in your candidate."

"I know, you're just...jaded, right?"

"Mmm."

She makes a face. "Sucks. Understandable, after..." She gestures, grimacing; there's no need to expound on what you both already know. Your former candidate's predilections tumbled messily into the public eye when the Megido sisters took their story to the press about two months after the election, but you knew he was bad long before then. There's a reason you didn't give notice of your departure from his employ. Roxy is taking an awkward step towards the door, though, clearly aware that she may soon outstay her welcome. "I...won't take up any more of your time, but...do you wanna...I dunno..." Another gesture, this time coupled with a hopeful look. "...catch up? I got plenty of stories from my side of the family, so - "

"Yes." You don't have to think about the answer. "Absolutely, yes - "

"How 'bout dinner?"

You were about to say _let's do lunch_. "...That sounds..." It sounds far more momentous than lunch, but what you say is, "...lovely."

"Pick you up at seven?"

"Um."

Your dumbfounded blinking shakes Roxy from her stride. "I-if tonight's good for you."

"Yes, I - " This is all happening very quickly, but for some reason you're content to let it. " - are you sure your schedule will allow?"

She grins. You're starting to like that grin. "Reckon I can persuade it." She reaches to clasp your hand again, this time in both of hers. "It was...really great meeting you. Cousin."

You smile at that, because if she isn't completely genuine she's the best actress you've ever met. "You too."

Without warning, she touches your cheek. It tingles oddly. "Damn, you're so _cute_ ," she says, feigning bitterness through a roguish smile. "Why didn't I get the cute gene?"

Inside a minute she's gone, leaving you to wonder what the hell just happened.

 

The surprise hasn't worn off by evening. You never expected to encounter the Striders. Cousin Roxanne in particular was one of your mother's favourite cautionary tales during your teenage years, to the extent that by seven o'clock you've recalled no less than a dozen anecdotes to ask Roxy about - and before you're even seated in the friendly little steak house the two of you picked out, she has you in stitches. Your mother told a lot of lies, if Roxy is to be believed. Frankly you prefer her version of the truth; it's more believable, now that you've met her, and a lot funnier too. In return she asks you about your mother (fussy, alcoholic, passive-aggressive), your work with Spider88 (exasperating, and even after a glass and a half of wine you refuse to tell her the whole of the tarantula story), and eventually, half way through the meal, Doc Scratch. You're careful with the details, but you sketch out the shape of your dramatic departure and don't instantly regret it. It feels like a good sign.

And then you ask her who wanted you for the campaign, and what she says almost makes you choke on your dinner.

"Actually, it was Janey."

By some titanic feat of will, you manage to swallow. "...As in _the_ Jane. Jane Crocker."

Roxy's mouth twists. "Yeah, I gotta kick that habit. Known her a lotta years, y'know?"

You glance around furtively and lower your voice to a hiss, old shame making you wary. "Why in god's name would your candidate want the woman who almost put Doc Scratch in the White House?"

"In her words?" Her easy smile, rather than being irritating, helps you relax. "Making him look good speaks to skill. Deciding not to _keep_ doing it speaks to integrity."

Nevertheless, your brow furrows. "I'm not a political litmus test, Roxy. Jane Crocker can't expect to bring me on as a sign that she has nothing to hide."

Roxy considers this for a moment, then sits back in her chair, drink in hand. (It's lemonade.) "Why do people wear makeup? Humour me."

You raise an eyebrow, expression a mask of cynicism. "To fool unsuspecting observers into thinking they're more attractive than they are."

She laughs. "Wow, you _are_ jaded. Makeup doesn't mean that what's underneath isn't worth seeing. If it did there'd be a lot less of a market. It's supposed to _enhance_ beauty. Make it more obvious from the first glance."

"What's your point?"

"My point is..." She leans forward again, forearms on the table; you ought to find it rude, but instead it's engaging. "...I get it. You're done telling lies for assholes, and you don't wanna spend your days with sequins and glitter trying to make psychos look marketably glamorous. I'm not asking you for either. I'm just saying...this is a good thing we're trying to make happen, and we could use your help backstage." She spreads her hands and smiles, then goes back to her meal with one last remark. "You can make a bad person look like a future President. Don't you wanna see what you could do with a good one?"

You do. Of course you do. But you're preoccupied with the thought that she doesn't need her light touches of makeup, and you don't want to talk about that _or_ her candidate, so you spend a while in awkward, pregnant silence, contemplating the flicker of her tongue between her lips and the flex of her throat as she swallows.

The rest of dinner passes without either of you saying anything of consequence, dodging the elephants of the Crocker campaign and what you feel sure is mutual attraction. At the end of it all she drives you home, going so far as to park the car and walk you to your door.

"I'm not gonna push you," she says then, and you pause in fumbling for your keys to listen. "I've done enough of that and I know you've had some fuckawful experiences. But whatever you decide - whether you wanna go write your novel or come on board with us or, hell, go back to putting the shine on the beautiful people - don't be a stranger, okay? I really like you. I wanna see more of you. You've got my number, so...call me. Any time."

For a moment you think she might kiss you, and part of you - a larger part than you'd like to admit - is disappointed when she doesn't.

 

Your thoughts return to her at about three that morning while you're recovering from the bi-weekly nightmare (broodfester tongues, copious tentacles); needing a distraction, you decide to see what the fuss is all about. A few moments with Google yields the campaign's main website, and you peruse it with a critical eye. Oh, that must be Ms. Crocker on the header. God, what dreadful lighting! She needs new proshots and a wardrobe revamp, not to mention a serious chat with her design team - the graphics look dated and amateurish (is that _clipart_?) and the theme isn't sufficiently cohesive or recognisable. And that's a spelling mistake. No, no, _no_. This is a _travesty_. Somebody has to get this woman's publicity back on track.

...Oh god, you're going to join up, aren't you.

Fuck.

 

The next morning does its best to prevent you. The heavens open the moment you step outside, which on its own would have been fine; your trusty green umbrella has served you for many years without springing a leak or turning inside out. Half way through the last stretch of walking, though, an unexpected squall rips it out of your hand and flattens it under a passing truck - which then proceeds to drench you from head to toe by driving through an ill-placed puddle. Three young men leaving a nearby building stop to applaud. You don't know whether to shout abuse, make an obscene gesture or take a fucking _bow_. Seething, you press on. You've made your decision, for better or for worse, and you're not going to let a little water or the peanut gallery slow you down.

You arrive at the campaign office with your hair and clothes plastered down with water and your makeup in streaks. Stepping into the building makes you realise just how cold you are; your teeth start to chatter, and you stutter on a word or two as you ask to see Roxy Strider. You don't want to meet anyone like this, least of all her, but you need to speak to her first. You have to look her in the eye and - ah, there she is, sharp suit and glossy black boots, perfect hair and makeup, the picture of class. What a mess you are by comparison.

"Is she a good woman?" you ask, not waiting for her to take the first word.

Roxy doesn't hesitate. She knows who you mean. "Better than good."

"Would you trust her with your life?"

"In a heartbeat."

"And your life savings?"

A little grin. "In half a heartbeat."

You stand and look into her eyes, and her gaze doesn't falter for an instant. Nor does that grin.

Decision made.

You take a shuddering breath, and with two words you change the course of your life forever.

"...I'm in."

To your complete surprise, she pulls you into a hug. She smells delicious, indescribable but _good_ on some deep and instinctive level, and the warmth of her body is such a relief that a small, weak part of you wants to cling to her and sob. "Thank god," she murmurs. "Thank you. - Oh, Jesus, did you jump in a storm drain on the way over?" Her recognition of your sodden state is belated, but as she leads you to a door at the back of the campaign office she keeps a protective arm around you despite the damp. "C'mon - let's get you warmed up."

Given that you're shivering beyond your control, you're not about to argue.

 

You're settled behind the scenes in a borrowed pair of jeans (too long, turned up) and her jacket (too large, close around the chest, carries her scent), holding a mug of tea (perfect), when she asks, "What changed your mind?"

You cradle the mug in your lap and cycle through several possible answers - _the possibility of a female candidate worth supporting, the need to believe I'm more than just a well-paid liar, that damnably contagious spark of hope in your eyes_ and eventually just _you_ \- before finally settling on something. A cool raindrop falls from your hair on to your upper lip, and you lick at it absently. You're smudged beyond redemption anyway. "The idea that someone could be worth looking at without the makeup. - The candidate, I mean. Figuratively. Not me. I'm a state." Roxy looks about to protest, and you can't bear that, not now. Not from her in her rolled-up shirt sleeves and perfectly tailored trousers and boots polished so bright you could see your inadequacies reflected there. " - No, please, I look like the product of a drunken tryst between a fifteen-year-old boy and a wet raccoon - "

"Ssh." She cups your jaw with one hand and presses the pad of her thumb to your mouth, clumsy but gentle. "Don't. You - " Her gaze is darting about your face. She strokes your lip, her thumb catching on the smeared remains of your lipstick, and your shiver has nothing to do with the cold.

"...Christ," she whispers, "you're so fucking beautiful, I just..."

And then your hand is gripping her collar and she's kissing you, and you don't know which happened first. Her palm has fitted itself to the side of your neck. One fingertip is stroking the fine, downy hairs at the nape. God, she's so warm. It's heaven, after being out in the rain. Part of your mind is screaming _she's your COUSIN!_ as another protests _she's not a close enough cousin for anyone to care_ , but both are quickly silenced by the glide of her tongue across your lips, and swept away soon after by the slide of her other hand into - oh god, her hand is in your _hair_ and it feels... You make some little sound and you fold, you fold like a house of cards and you're warm and open and letting her in -

"Ahem."

The deliberate cough startles you so much you almost spill your tea. Roxy squeaks with alarm and retreats so hastily she trips over her boots. She spends a moment sprawled on the floor before scrambling upright, straightening her shirt and dabbing at her mouth in search of lipstick smears. (It doesn't help.) Your eyes dart between her and the round little woman who's just arrived, and it dawns on you rather more slowly than it should that you've seen the latter before. On the website header.

"When I said "go get Lalonde"," says Jane Crocker, eyebrow raised and arms akimbo, "this was _not_ what I had in mind..." There's a little smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. "Can I safely assume no introductions need making here?"

Roxy, now nearly as smudged as you are, awkwardly remembers herself. "Jane Crocker, candidate; Rose Lalonde, publicist."

You stand awkwardly, cradling your tea to your chest with your off-hand while offering the other. Roxy and the mug haven't done much to warm it through. "Lovely to meet you."

Jane has a firm handshake and a twinkle of mischief in her eye; in defiance of your earlier caution, you like her instantly. "Likewise. I'm sorry you got caught out in the weather. Is there anything I can get you?" You shake your head mutely - you should have said something, to be polite, but she doesn't seem to mind. "When you've had the chance to warm up, come find me in my office. We have a lot to discuss." She smiles warmly. "I'm so glad to be working with you."

The statement takes you aback, jars you into honesty. "Thank you. Sincerely. I...think I needed this more than I realised."

"Glad to hear it." She turns to leave, but pauses in the doorway to address your dishevelled companion. "Oh, and Roxy? Do send a memo to the Pants Department and remind it that it doesn't get to vote on decisions during business hours."

The door closes behind her. You and Roxy exchange glances, and simultaneously dissolve into laughter. You think this might be the first time you've ever managed to laugh through mortification. It feels good. Easy.

"Oh my god," says Roxy at length, through chuckles, "I am so sorry. I deserved that. Janey's a total tightass, but - yeah. Whoops." She rubs the back of her head sheepishly. "Any chance you could, uh...make me look a little better in there?"

You could say something like _right now, to me, you're perfect_. It would be true. Instead you finish your tea, straighten your (her) jacket, run your fingers once or twice through your hair and flash her a confident smile. Despite everything - or perhaps because of it - you feel more confident now than you have in a long, long time.

"Give me five minutes," you say, and step out into the light.

 

(She does eventually get the rest of the tarantula story out of you, over a year later, in your office at the White House after four glasses of champagne - and if President Crocker notices that her Press Secretary and her Deputy Chief of Staff are a little ruffled when they return to the party, she's polite enough to keep your secrets.)

**Author's Note:**

> Homage to The West Wing entirely intended.
> 
> Trivia: "Spiderbait", without any Serket-y spelling, is an Australian alternative rock band, and the name of their lead vocalist/bass guitarist is - I could not make this up - _Janet English_.
> 
> A thousand thanks to my team - Alex, C, Katy, Megan, Val and our fearless leader Innsmouth - for your faith and support. Ladies, it's an honour to sail with you.


End file.
